


against the reedy shore

by bastaerd



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Comfort Sex, M/M, tit fic but like. weirdly sad ???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25609477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastaerd/pseuds/bastaerd
Summary: Collins' heartbeat is quicker than it ought to be. Not concerningly so, but, still, quicker. Besides that, it is a strong pulse, keeping an even time despite its tempo. Goodsir has the thought, suddenly, that if he were to press the stethoscope to his own breast, he might hear the same rhythm, and their two hearts might, for that moment, beat in sync.Goodsir removes the headset, drops the stethoscope on the table beside the two of them. He holds one hand out, asks, “If I may, Mr. Collins?”
Relationships: Henry Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	against the reedy shore

**Author's Note:**

> me writing a sex scene, eyes closed, trying to get through it as quickly as possible: it can't be as bad as d*n s*mmons! it can't be as bad as d*n s*mmons!

Goodsir is busy taking an inventory of the medical tinctures, a job left to him by Dr. Stanley more for want of something to delegate than for any real necessity, when he happens to glance up and towards the doorway and nearly drop his pen and ledger.

“Mr. Collins!” he exclaims, regaining himself and setting the things in his hands down on the nearby table. “I hadn’t noticed you standing there-- have you been waiting long?”

Collins, uncharacteristically timid, shakes his head. He clutches his cap in his hands, held at his waist, as if someone has just died; and, indeed, David Young had passed away two nights prior, or perhaps it had been yesterday in the very early morning, but Collins’ posture is not the result of mourning. Rather, it is as if he is trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible, a large man such as he.

“No, sir,” he replies, eyes roving around the room and staying off of Goodsir, even as Goodsir meets him at the doorway and ushers him in. He follows, but remains standing, even when offered a place to sit.

“I was told I should have myself checked over,” he begins to explain. “After the dive.”

“Ah,” Goodsir says. “Well, I- Dr. Stanley has retired for the night, I’m afraid.”

He is loathe to send Collins away like this. It is already a full day and change past Collins’ dive, and an examination ought to have been performed after he had emerged from the water and had a chance to get dry. The sickbay was still occupied with Young’s corpse, though, and both Stanley and Goodsir with the autopsy and briefing. With all the excitement, Collins’ examination had been delayed, and likely will be delayed another day, thinks Goodsir with a pang of guilt.

“That is the reason I’ve come at this hour,” Collins admits, after a moment of hesitation, “if I am speaking truthfully. I couldn’t stand…”

Again, he hesitates, and his fingers move, agitated, around the rim of his cap, turning it in his grip.

“I would rather it be you, doctor.”

“Oh,” Goodsir says. “That’s- I-I’m only an assistant, Mr. Collins, Dr. Stanley would certainly do a better job than I. He has had the proper training for it. Please do not take this for a dismissal of your comfort-”

“From you, sir, I wouldn’t.”

There is a wry little smile on Collins’ face now. It heartens Goodsir to see it, and he answers it in kind.

“Will you not wait for the morning, Mr. Collins?” he asks, imploring rather than patronizing. “I would hate for your health to be at the mercy of an untrained- well, an eye trained for a different purpose.”

“At this point, if I had been in any danger, I would have been carried in here by the ABs,” Collins points out; Goodsir does not argue his point by citing the silent, sneaky killers of Young and the men buried on Beechey, as Collins has certainly considered them and their deaths. Nor does he tell him of Hartnell’s autopsy, the first incisions done upside down, much to Dr. Stanley’s annoyance. “It’s for the records more than it is for any concern for my well being. I would prefer it be by hands I can trust.”

To trust an assistant surgeon, an anatomist by training, more than a full-fledged doctor speaks for more than Goodsir can recognize. He understands, of course, where a man may be discomfited by Stanley’s bedside manner, or lack thereof, but to hear it so plainly, and to hear himself favored above the doctor? It brings an improper blush to his cheeks, and sways him more than he ought to admit to anyone. The sickbay suddenly feels more like a confessional.

“Then I will do my very best,” Goodsir promises. Again, he offers Collins the chair, and this time Collins sits himself down, still holding his cap on his lap. His grip on it has loosened, though, and he has stopped fidgeting it around in circles. The sound of his breathing fills the room as Goodsir finds a stethoscope. He is certain Collins doesn’t breathe so to calm Goodsir’s nerves, but that is the effect it has, nonetheless. Goodsir wonders what it is like to be above deck at all hours, hearing Collins’ voice and feeling his presence even with his back turned. A comfort, much more than having Dr. Stanley peering down at him over his straight nose, always with words of distaste at the ready.

To trade that for Collins’ voice, gentle even in a shout.

Goodsir begins by studying Collins’ eyes. They track the movement of Goodsir’s left hand when prompted. Additionally, both pupils look to be the same size, neither one blown out of shape, and they react to the light as they should.

“Sorry,” Goodsir apologizes when Collins winces and squints, but notes that his pupils shrink and then return to their original size. “There, that’s done with. Is your hearing changed at all, or have you felt any pain deep in your ears?”

An inscrutable look passes over Collins’ face, but, like a cloud, it goes as quickly as it came.

“No, sir.”

“Are you sure?” Goodsir asks. “Please, nothing is too minor to warrant mention. Not to me, at least, and it ought not to be to you, either, considering it is your own health.”

“I haven’t had pain in my ears,” Collins answers carefully. “The hearing, it’s hard to tell. What with the roar of the sea and the groaning of the ice, and all the shouting back and forth that goes on on deck, I mean.”

“Of course,” Goodsir says, nodding. He takes the stethoscope now, fingers at its diaphragm.

“Would you mind- ah, disrobing,” he asks. “Not-! Not entirely, that is, only your upper body. Only as much as is comfortable, for that matter.”

Collins stands, sets his cap aside, and begins to unbutton his coat. Goodsir makes to help, then hesitates, staying back for fear of being too forward and ruining whatever comfort Collins may feel with him-- the man had sought him out, specifically, after all. Still, there is no discomfort in Collins’ stance as he removes his outer layers. Here, he lacks the confidence he has displayed above deck, but in the absence of familiarity, at least there is trust. That, too, would have been absent, had Dr. Stanley conducted the examination as scheduled. Goodsir takes each item of clothing from Collins and sets them on a clean part of the table. Finally, Collins is down to his turtleneck, and does not hesitate before removing that, too, and passing it to Goodsir, who nearly lets it fall from his hands. He averts his eyes and occupies himself with the stethoscope, warming the diaphragm on his palm as much as he is able to warm it in the Arctic climate.

In that time, Collins has taken his seat again. Goosebumps prickle on his arms, another sure indicator of the low temperature, and Goodsir notes to himself in some quiet, muzzled part of his brain that Collins’ nipples are articulated against the dense hair on his chest. He pushes the observation aside and pushes the diaphragm against Collins’ chest, pressing into the soft give of it while Collins’ heart beats in his ears.

It is quicker than it ought to be. Not concerningly so, but, still, quicker. Besides that, it is a strong pulse, keeping an even time despite its tempo. Goodsir has the thought, suddenly, that if he were to press the stethoscope to his own breast, he might hear the same rhythm, and their two hearts might, for that moment, beat in sync.

Goodsir removes the headset, drops the stethoscope on the table beside the two of them. He holds one hand out, asks, “If I may, Mr. Collins?” and the question is not even fully out of his mouth before Collins nods his assent.

The flesh of Collins’ torso is as pliable beneath Goodsir’s hand as he had predicted from the stethoscope. He presses his hand to Collins’ ribs, just underneath the left pectoral, and lowers his head to the spot, bending so that his own torso is almost parallel to the deck. It is an intensely uncomfortable position to hold, especially after spending the day either straight-backed and on his feet or bent over a desk, poring over the notes of Young’s autopsy and trying to find some kind of detectable pattern Goodsir knows must exist. But Collins’ heart pounds under his ear, beating as fiercely as Goodsir’s does.

He ought to make a note of that.  _ When observed by ear, the patient exhibits a racing pulse. As do I.  _ Dr. Stanley would say something distasteful about the use of the first person in that report.

At once, Goodsir realizes his position, what he has found himself compelled to do, and recoils, face burning as he flinches back from Collins. The man sits there, watching him with a look on his face that Goodsir cannot place; what he can read in the expression is incongruous with the context. But he watches him, his brow lightly furrowed in the sort of confusion that occurs when on the wronger side of a misunderstanding, and Goodsir’s heart aches to placate him.

“I- forgive me,” he stutters, “that was- I am very sorry, Mr. Collins, I am- am  _ wildly _ out of line, I don’t-”

He cuts himself off, scrubbing a hand over his face and stepping back, giving Collins the space to stand and exit if he so wishes. The last thing he wants to do is to fence him in, to make him feel trapped in the tiny, low-ceilinged sickbay, and by the lone assistant surgeon who occupies it. 

“Doctor,” Collins asks, though the inquiry is more sure than Goodsir has sounded or felt in the past minute. It startles a dry laugh out of him.

“For God’s sake, Mr. Collins,” he says, “I don’t think I’ve ever been less worthy of being called doctor.”

“That isn’t how I see it.”

Only now does Collins get to his feet, and his silhouette seems to fill the room, every corner of it, just as the sound of his breathing had earlier. Just as the steady gait of his pulse had under Goodsir’s ear. He does now so much command the sickbay as he- as he holds it. If every piece of furniture had a life of its own, they would swivel to face him, pull up the nails to be drawn into his magnetism. As he steps forward, Goodsir feels himself lean with the sway of the ship.

“The truth is, Mr. Goodsir,” Collins begins, and then looks away, pursing his lips for a brief second before continuing in that careful, precise way he has. “The truth is that I sought you out, rather than have Dr. Stanley conduct the examination. Being in the same room as him is like being alone, only I would prefer solitude to his company.”

As he says it, his face flushes, and then a curious smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. He directs that smile towards the floorboards, but his eyes meet Goodsir’s, and Goodsir cannot fight off an answering smile.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t care to hear that you said so,” he replies. “Not for any criticism of his manner-- he might wear that as a badge of honor.”

Collins laughs at that, pulling in deep breaths with his belly, and Goodsir finds himself joining in. With every inhalation, Collins’ wide chest expands like a bellows, healthy and robust.

“Oh!”

“Yes?”

Goodsir gestures ineffectually, and then steps past Collins to retrieve from the stack of garments his coat, the heaviest thing he had been wearing when he came in.

“I had forgotten the temperature,” he explains, which isn’t quite right-- no one can forget the temperature in the Arctic, cold and dry as it is on the best of days-- but is the quickest reasoning he can offer at the moment. “Here I am in all my layers, and you- you must be freezing, Mr. Collins, here.”

Collins looks at the coat, takes it from Goodsir’s hands, and looks at it again, as if there has been some kind of error in which he has taken another man’s coat instead of his own.

“Is there… is there something wrong, Mr. Collins?” Goodsir asks; it is certainly the same coat Collins had been wearing earlier. When he raises his eyes to Collins’ face again, though, he finds his cheeks gone a good healthy pink that spreads across his face to his ears, and down his neck, too. He is used to seeing Collins pink-faced, on the occasions when he sees him, but that is a different kind of pink, the kind that cold air leaves as it chaps the skin. Distinct from a fever, too, and lacking in the ashen quality where the blush does not reach.

At long last, Collins answers, “Are you quite sure my lungs are clear?”

Goodsir is positive. There is no real concern on Collins’ face, only the look of a man treading carefully.

“Of course,” he replies. “That is, I can check again, if you would like. Please-”

Collins sits again before Goodsir can offer him the chair, for the third time that evening. When Goodsir makes to retrieve the stethoscope, Collins says, “I trust your ear, doctor,” and he forgoes it. Stood as he was when he had his ear pressed to Collins’ chest left his back aching; as if sharing the same thought, Collins makes room for him between his knees. Goodsir kneels between them, coming up short, only able to reach the crease where chest meets belly when taking into account the distance the seat of the chair puts between them, but Collins sits forward, and there is his pulse again.

Goodsir counts the beats, marks the time in his own chest. When he does so, he finds that they align. Collins’ chest rises and falls, and so does Goodsir’s head with it, steady as Erebus through the Atlantic waters. Goodsir had been stumbling left and right as they had begun their voyage, but Collins had been steady from the start, moving with the rocking of the ship rather than trying to counteract it. There had been a rhythm to his body. Goodsir recalls it, and closes his eyes. He feels Collins curl over him, the curve where his throat meets his jaw resting over the top of Goodsir’s head, and, soon, a hand at the back of it, keeping him in place there. His own hands come to settle on Collins’ thighs, strong and dense with give under the material of his trousers. The warmth of Collins’ skin radiates through it.

“Your lungs are clear, Mr. Collins,” Goodsir says, ear still against Collins’ breast, though it is more as a result of one whole side of his face being pressed there. “I cannot hear any stuttering, or rattling- anything that might indicate mucosal buildup, or fluid.”

What he does hear is the hum that reverberates through Collins’ chest, acknowledging the report with a muted interest.

“And your heart,” Goodsir continues, “is healthy. You- you have a good heart, Mr. Collins, an exemplary heart.”

The hum resounds again. It reminds Goodsir of the ship’s engine, ever-present and deceptively powerful. To think he rarely ever sees the thing, though life and routine on board depend upon it. Without thinking, Goodsir turns his head, just enough so that the corner of his mouth touches Collins’ chest. The thick hair tickles his face, and he wonders if his own whiskers tickle Collins’ skin; if they do, he is keeping remarkably stoic about it.

“I came ‘round earlier,” Collins says, and though he barely speaks above a whisper, it echoes in Goodsir’s ears. “Dr. Stanley was here, and when I asked about an examination, he told me that he was very busy. If I was certain I wouldn’t start vomiting blood all over myself, he said, my examination could wait.”

He takes a long, steady breath; his fingertips brush as Goodsir’s scalp.

“I’ve never been grateful to have a misanthrope for a surgeon,” he admits, “but as I left sickbay, I felt relieved that he had shooed me away. When I said that I would prefer it done by hands I can trust, Mr. Goodsir, I meant it.”

He pauses, and Goodsir waits for him to choose his next words. When they finally come, they are hushed, and he feels the breath that carries them.

“There is… gentleness to you. I can see that, even from a distance. And the way the others talk about you, I’ve heard great affection in their voices. It’s hard not to feel that affection, myself.”

That heart of his has begun to race again. Under his cheek, Goodsir feels it, like an insistent visitor knocking to be let in. He raises one of his hands from Collins’ thighs and covers his heart with it, lifting his head to do so. His palm forms a shallow cup, which he presses against Collins’ chest until he hears a sigh. Whether it is himself or Collins, he cannot tell, and it does not make an appreciable difference.

“This,” he hears Collins say. “Gentleness.”

The hand at the back of his head pulls him close again, and Goodsir closes the last centimeter of distance under his own direction. His lips are pressed to Collins’ sternum, and he applies the pressure of a kiss there, relishing the uncalloused skin and the scent of work. It ought to come off as unpleasant, only assisting in surgeries has resulted in a very non-judgmental sense of smell, and even then, it is far from the scent of illness that can sometimes be detected on someone’s breath. It is only the scent of living. Goodsir kneads the heel of his hand against Collins’ chest and hears another intake of breath as the hand in his hair tightens reflexively, then relaxes again.

Collins’ legs shift around him, and then he feels the bulk of the man’s calves settle against his sides, pressing gently there, holding him where Collins’ arms cannot reach. Goodsir makes a sound in the back of his throat; he opens his mouth and presses it blindly to Collins’ chest, giving it an unpracticed kiss. Despite the heat of his hand, he feels Collins’ nipple bead up where his palm is. The hand that has been holding the back of Goodsir’s head leaves it in favor of covering the hand on Collins’ chest, directing it to squeeze and press where he pleases.

For what feels like hours, they clutch at each other, Goodsir with his face against Collins’ chest and Collins clutching him there, eyes closed, breathing with his entire body. It graduates, then, to something more desperate, Goodsir running his fingers along Collins’ chest in arcs towards his collarbones, mouthing at the center line of his chest as if to make sure there is no seam of an incision or of scarring there, and Collins readjusting his hands almost compulsively, holding Goodsir to him in any way he can. At some point, Collins pulls at his shoulders until Goodsir is coaxed to straddle his thighs, and then wraps his arms around him as Goodsir lets his head fall to the dip between Collins’ clavicles. The sickbay closes around them, sheltering them and hiding them away in their shared pocket of time. It seems as if everything outside of the room is frozen, part of its own Erebite pack; it must be. At some point, Collins makes the sound of Goodsir’s name, and Goodsir corrects him.

“Harry,” he says against Collins’ shoulder, at the thick muscle where it connects to his neck. “That- that is my name.”

“Henry,” Collins offers, and rank and title and occupation fall away from the both of them. Harry palms at Henry’s chest, rubbing the pad of his thumb over a nipple, and then Henry cups his jaw and lifts his head to kiss him fiercely, once, and then twice, and then once more. His eyes are a bit wild when they part.

“We should-” he begins, before the words get lodged in his throat. Harry nods his agreement to whatever Henry means to suggest. He fumbles with the front placket of Henry’s trousers so that Henry does not have to withdraw his arms, and with little coaxing frees Henry’s prick. Henry’s breath stutters as it brushes against Harry’s thigh, and then, when he adjusts his position, against the front of his trousers, underneath which his own cock is stiff in a way for which Harry has forgotten to be ashamed. He opens his trousers and lowers his hips, and it does not take long for them both to spend, painting Collins’ belly with it.

It feels unimportant, their release. Against the solid weight of Henry’s arms. Against the rise and fall of Henry’s chest. Against how Henry’s gaze meets Harry’s own. As if the two of them are meant to stay like that, interlocked and inextricable from one another.

After some time, Goodsir’s other faculties return to him, and he stumbles back off of Collins’ thighs, remembering belatedly to tuck himself back into his pants and re-fasten them. He finds a rag-- not yet marked in the inventory-- and wipes Collins clean with it, folding it to hide the evidence of their activity and putting it with the medical waste. When he turns back around, Collins has also gotten to his feet and done up his trousers again, and is now pulling his shirt over his head, mussing his hair with it. Goodsir watches him dress himself, feeling as if he should be helping him with it, but something keeps him where he stands; he is reminded, briefly, of two magnets with their like polarities facing each other, each forcing the other away. If only one or the other would turn.

When Collins is fully dressed again, nothing more remains of the time they have shared this evening but for a lingering flush to his skin, and, presumably, to Goodsir’s, as well. He makes to leave, but before he reaches the door, he looks back at Goodsir over his shoulder.

“Goodnight,” he says, and then adds, “Harry,” with a secret of a smile.

“Goodnight, Henry,” Goodsir replies. “Sleep well.”

“I certainly will.”

It is only after Collins has left that Goodsir notices the cap still left on the table, forgotten.  _ Well, _ he thinks,  _ I will have to return this to Henry tomorrow. _

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr at [harrydsgoodsir](http://harrydsgoodsir.tumblr.com), a url which qualifies me to write collins tit fic.


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